A Pernicious Suitor
by Saucery
Summary: Edward Elric, barely sixteen and quite ignorant of mating rituals, has no idea that he's the target of a most pernicious suitor. Faced with the persistent and downright Machiavellian wooing of one Roy Mustang, will Ed emerge unscathed? SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Edward Elric, barely sixteen and quite ignorant of mating rituals, has no idea that he's the target of a most pernicious suitor. Faced with the persistent and downright Machiavellian wooing of one Roy Mustang, will Ed emerge unscathed? Or will he become just another conquest for the infamous Colonel, whose ambitions for the Führership take precedence above all else? A romantic tragicomedy for all ages! (Um. All ages over 16, anyway.)

**Notes:** I've bent the timeline a little bit, both within canon and without, to include scientific discoveries like the Uncertainty Principle even though they haven't yet been discovered in FMA's world history. This is just for kicks; it doesn't actually change the plot in any appreciable way. (Translation: I just wanted to be geeky.) I must also warn you that there is nothing serious about this story; it is simply a fun-loving take on Ed's 'ideal' life as a sixteen-year-old, with Roy watching (perving?) over him and Hughes still hanging around. And since this is _my_ ideal life for Ed, I've conveniently done away with the whole no-relationships-within-the-military thing, and have even replaced it with a socially acceptable system of pseudo-pederasty. Hey, FMA's _already_ an alternate history – it can't hurt to add a few perks of my own, right?

**Title:** The title is based on a quote from Shakespeare's play, _Much Ado About Nothing_, the relevance of which will become obvious later on.

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**A PERNICIOUS SUITOR****  
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**- Chapter I -  
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Mustang had taken to _watching_ Ed, which meant either that he was planning something unpleasant for him, or that he just wanted to drive Ed insane by making him _imagine_ what Mustang might be planning for him. The insane thing seemed to be working, all right, because Ed found himself becoming increasingly twitchy and paranoid.

He also knew that confronting the Bastard Colonel about it was pointless, as pointless as it was trying to catch a slippery eel, or pin down an electron mid-transmutation. Hell, Mustang was the very personification of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. Just _looking_ at him filled Ed with the same peculiar, frustrating buzz he felt whenever he looked at an incomplete array – too many unknowns, too many goddamn parameters, impossible to decipher and impossible to ignore until he figured them all out. And he had no illusions about _ever_ being able to figure Mustang out.

He couldn't understand why Mustang stared at his _hands_, sometimes, when he was shoving yet another shorthand report across Mustang's desk. (Was it the gloves? Some inferiority complex about Ed not needing transmutation circles?) Or why he stared at Ed's shoulders, or even his _hair_. (What, was the braid suddenly against military regulations? It wasn't _before_. If it was, Hawkeye would be sporting a crew-cut by now.)

Whatever Mustang was up to, Ed wished he'd just reveal his nefarious plans, already. It was getting difficult for Ed to _concentrate_, even in the middle of mission briefings, what with those shadow-dark eyes fixed on him like he was an experiment on the verge of yielding results. The question was: What _kind_ of experiment? And what kinds of results?

He tried to tell Al about his suspicions, but Al only sighed and shook his head, the way he did whenever Ed brought up the Colonel, these days. Which was unfair, because it wasn't _that_ often, right?

"Just go to sleep, brother," Al huffed, and Al was obviously the most inconsiderate and oblivious sibling in the whole world, because how was Ed supposed to sleep when conspiracy theories about Mustang's stupid _eyes_ were crowding his mind?

"I'm not going crazy," he muttered into his pillow – and Al must've heard him, because he snorted disbelievingly from across the room.

* * *

But then Mustang sent them on yet another wild-goose chase in the North, involving a bunch of rogue alchemists hell-bent on creating an army of Abominable Snowmen (ice-bound chimeras, really). There was this nunnery and an ancient relic that Ed might have kind of accidentally melted, and he might have misplaced a train or two, but he _did _save those nuns from hordes of ravening Yeti, so Mustang could take his complaint forms and shove them where the sun didn't shine. Mustang could needle him as much as he wanted about 'great' responsibilities and 'small' alchemists, but Ed wasn't about to give in.

Or at least, that's how it was _supposed_ to go – but Mustang had mysteriously neglected making any puns about Ed's height, which was weird enough in itself to almost put Ed off his food (_almost_ – thank _god_ for Hawkeye bringing those sandwiches to the Colonel's office, anyway), and what was even weirder was that despite wearing his usual poker face, Mustang was _still _watching him. Ed wished Al were here, just so he could point at Mustang and say: 'There! See? I'm not crazy!' But Al was still outside, begging Fuery to adopt the latest stray kitten he'd found.

Great. Ed was stuck in here, being subjected to some sort of freaky stare attack, and his brother wasn't here to back him up.

It made Ed antsy. He complained about the complaint forms, kicked Mustang's desk to illustrate just how tiny the dent in the nunnery's wall was, and generally kept his hands in his pockets (and out of staring range), but Mustang. Kept. _Looking_ at him.

It started a hot itch between Ed's shoulder-blades, possibly because he was allergic to all things Bastard, but hey. He'd have to suffer through it until he invented a hypoallergenic anti-Mustang spray. (Item #43 on his To-Alchemize list – quite high up, considering that the list was 672 items long, and the first 40 items were all Al-related.)

But enough was enough. He'd _had_ it with this.

"What?" Ed finally snapped at the Colonel.

Who merely raised an eyebrow, the bastard, as if he didn't _know_ what he was doing. "Yes, Fullmetal?"

"You." Edward could _feel_ his veins starting to pop. But no, he wasn't going to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of watching Ed lose it. Sadistic creep. "_You're_ the one staring at me! And you've been staring at me for... for weeks!"

The Colonel raised his _other_ eyebrow, too. "You noticed," he murmured, and seemed oddly pleased.

"Anyone would notice if the Flame Alchemist was staring at them hard enough to _burn holes_ into them, yeah."

"Hm. Subtlety does tend to be lost on savages."

Ed bristled, but Mustang was still _looking_ at him, at nothing _but_ him, with the kind of uncanny focus that made Ed's skin crawl. Or tingle. Or something.

And what made it worse was that Mustang's voice had gone all silky and smooth, as treacherous as quicksand. "You're turning sixteen this Friday."

"Yeah, so?" Ed had nearly forgotten, actually, except that Al had recently started his usual pre-birthday hijinks of 'secretly' disappearing somewhere – as secretly as a giant coat of armor could, anyway – and he only ever did that when he was looking for a surprise birthday present. "What's it to you?"

Mustang's eyes were cat-like, dark and heavy-lidded and insufferably smug. "Oh, nothing. I just thought I ought to convey my congratulations to you in an appropriate fashion. Say, a rare alchemical treatise from the 16th century? Followed by an intelligent discussion about said treatise, possibly over dinner."

Ed blinked. "What?"

"Of course, I understand that you might wish to spend the actual day celebrating with your brother – and subsequently with Maes, as he and Gracia will likely have something planned on Saturday – but you might want to keep your Sunday open."

Mustang was spouting absolute gibberish. "My. What?"

"Your _Sunday_, Fullmetal. Surely you've heard of the concept? Sabbath, the day of rest?"

"If it's a day of rest, why should I spend it with _you_?"

"I simply want to give you a token of my appreciation, for your many years of service to the military."

Ed snorted. "For my many years of wrecking public property and running up your bills, you mean? What're you gonna do, poison my food?"

"Poison, no – but perhaps a good sprinkling of Xingian spice. I've heard that you quite enjoy it."

"How the heck do you know that I...?"

"Alphonse told me."

"Why would Al tell _you_?"

"Because I asked." Mustang had the gall to look _amused_. Bastard. And since when did Al talk to the Colonel without Ed knowing about it, anyway?

"What the hell are you up to, Mustang?" Ed didn't have time for this. He had to get back to the library, and read more about Item #9 on his To-Alchemize list – the restoration of human organs, sans skin. (Skin was #10.)

"A birthday celebration. For my most vaunted Fullmetal Alchemist."

"I'm not _your_ – no, you know what? Never mind. It's just about the book, right? This 16th-century thing. Just hand it over, then, if it's a birthday present. I don't see why I have to go out to a Xingian restaurant. For dinner. With _you_."

"Not a restaurant, Fullmetal. My home."

Ed's jaw dropped. "Your _home_. You're inviting _me_. The guy you say destroys every building he walks into. To your _home_."

"It's something of a gamble, yes." A slight quirk at the corner of Mustang's mouth, quick to disappear. "But I believe that the winnings will be worth it. And my cooking really is par none, Fullmetal."

Okay, now Ed had established that Mustang had gone _completely mad_, all he had to do was figure out _why_. Or maybe this really _was_ just a... formal thing. A show-your-appreciation-to-your-subordinates-to-maintain-their-morale thing. But that was stupid and _fake_, and not at all like Mustang's usual brand of fake (which was never stupid – that, at least, Ed had to admit).

Or maybe... oh.

_Oh_. A treatise. A historical treatise from the 1500s, when Dobler and his coterie of alchemists had formed a secretive organization that no one had ever discovered the purpose of. Except that maybe Mustang _had_. Could it have something to do with the Philosopher's Stone? And was _that_ why the Colonel was inviting him over, under the pretext of a 'birthday celebration', so he could hand over the treatise in the privacy of his own home, without raising the military's suspicions?

Now _that_ was more like Mustang's brand of fake. And it sort of even made all the weirdness okay. The weirdness of actually having a home-cooked birthday meal with the _Colonel_. Ugh.

Mustang had been watching him all along, seemingly entertained by whatever was happening on Ed's face. Ed hated it when Mustang looked at him like that – like he was some sort of sideshow, or maybe a puppet show, and Mustang wanted to be the one holding the strings.

"All right," Ed grated, adopting a mock-formal tone. "I gratefully accept your invitation, _sir_."

"Excellent!" Mustang pretended not to notice Ed's sarcasm. He even looked kind of _happy_, but this was Mustang, so who knew? Maybe that smile was just a random facial tic, or maybe he was genuinely thrilled at the prospect of making short jokes for an entire evening. Because he might've held off for today, but there was no _way_ he could hold off indefinitely. "Sunday it is. I'll be expecting you at eight."

* * *

**on to next chapter.**

Up next: Ed's first ever date!

Not that he knows it _is_ a date, but still...


	2. Chapter 2

**A PERNICIOUS SUITOR**

**- Chapter II -  
**

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It was an hour before he was due at Mustang's, and for some bizarre reason, _Al_ was flipping out.

"No, no, you've got to go _alone_, brother. What're you taking me for?"

Ed shrugged. "You always come with me."

"But – but – " Al wrung his hands, the giant gloves unable to conceal an anxious creak of metal. "Ah! I have plans! With Elicia!"

"Elicia," Ed deadpanned. "The five-year-old."

"Y-yeah. I promised – to show her something today. Um. A book! A book I was reading. And Mrs. Hughes would be really mad if I didn't keep my promise, right?"

Ed couldn't imagine Gracia being mad at _anyone_, for anything, unless it was being mad at her husband for not taking out the trash on time. No one could be mad at Al, anyway; that would be like being mad at a tiny bunny rabbit. (In a massive suit of armor, but... details, details.)

"Your choice." Ed finished braiding his hair; it was still slightly straggly after his shower, but what the hell. It wasn't like he was going on a _date_. "Too bad you'll miss out on seeing Mustang being all freaky and stare-y."

"I... don't think I want to see the Colonel being that way, brother. Really." Al laughed nervously – but when he saw Ed reaching for his tanktop, he jumped like he'd been bitten by an armor-piercing scorpion. "AH!"

Ed blinked – frozen with his head halfway through the tanktop. "What?"

"You can't wear that!"

"Why not?" Okay, so it was a little ratty and didn't smell too good after all the running around he'd done in it today, but so what? He always wore his tanktops, even to bed, and he hadn't done yesterday's laundry yet, so no fresh tanktops.

"You... you just _can't_! What happened to that shirt?"

"What shirt?"

"The – the nice one! With the long sleeves. That Teacher gave you on your birthday last year."

"Sleeves are bloody annoying when you've got automail to catch on 'em, Al. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Then a T-shirt! At _least_ a T-shirt. That dark blue one." Al was digging through their cupboard like a giant, over-excited gerbil. A T-shirt flew out from between the pillars of Al's legs and landed on Ed's head, followed promptly by a heavy smack of denim. "And these jeans! The black jeans."

Ed just stood there, gaping: a clothing-strewn totem pole.

Something was _definitely_ wrong here.

"Al," said Ed, very slowly, "are you all right?"

"Me? Of course! Just shiny! Peachy. I mean. Put the T-shirt on! And here, the black jacket you got for functions and things. It'll match with the jeans. Too bad it's corduroy... No, wait, that could actually work..."

"Al," Ed repeated, because he _had_ to make sure, "have you been smoking any of Havoc's 'special' cigarettes?" Not that they would have any affect Al's new body, but who knew for sure?

"What? No!"

"Then what the heck is going on? You're playing _dress-up_, Al. Either you've been reading those fashion magazines on Mrs. Hughes' coffee table – "

Al startled, just a little _too_ guiltily. "I never!"

" – _or_ Elicia's been brain-washing you. What, did she get you to play tea-time with her dolls again?"

Al breathed in; breathed quietly out. "Brother. I'd love to discuss sartorial psychology and gender stereotypes with you some other time, but right now, just. _Get into your clothes_. It's nearly quarter past. You've got to get going soon!"

"Since when have you cared about being on time to the Shitty Colonel's – whumpf!" Ed wheezed, because Al had just _yanked_ the tanktop off of him and had forced the T-shirt _on_. "Ow!"

"Jeans," said Al, tersely, and while Ed was struggling into those and wondering why his brother had suddenly gone _psychotic_, with _clothes_, Al undid his braid and ran a comb through it.

"Hey!" Ed cried indignantly. "My hair was just fine!"

"Like a haystack, sure. A _wet_ haystack." A snap of the plain black band and Ed's hair was in a ponytail, and looked more shiny than damp, somehow, now that it wasn't in a straggly plait. "There. All better."

"Al, what the fuck are you – "

"Jacket!" Al manhandled him into the corduroy monstrosity that they wouldn't even have _bought_ if it weren't military protocol that Ed have something vaguely jacket-shaped for those stupid 'smart-casual' functions. At least, _Ed_ thought it was a monstrosity, but maybe Mrs. Hughes' fashion magazines had other ideas, because Al looked him up and down and nodded in satisfaction. He whipped Ed around to look at the cracked full-length mirror on their cupboard door. "See?"

"See what?" demanded Ed, giving his crack-riddled reflection a dubious once-over. Sure, he looked almost-kind-of-maybe presentable and the jeans made him look... streamlined, or something, but he wasn't a _dolphin_, for fuck's sake. What did all this have to do with anything? "I'm not going to a freaking _awards ceremony_, Al, it's just dinner with a – okay, a superior officer, but – "

"Boots!" Al plonked Ed's usual pair of black boots in front of him, but hey, no mud-splatters.

"When did you – "

"Door!" announced Al, cheerfully, and began pushing him towards it.

"Al, you still haven't explained – "

But of course, his brother steamrolled right over him. "Oh, and one last bit of advice: don't call him 'Shitty Colonel'. It's rude when someone's being nice enough to invite you to dinner."

Ed's eyes bugged out. "_Nice_? Mustang? That scheming son of a – "

"No swearing, either," said Al, muttered something about 'second-last, actually,' and then shoved Ed, suddenly and unceremoniously, out into the dorm's hallway.

And slammed the door in his face.

_Goddamn_ little brothers and their goddamn opaque and downright crazy _fashion crusades_ –

"I KNOW YOU TOLD MUSTANG ABOUT THE XINGIAN FOOD!" he yelled at door. "You... You... double-crossing DOUBLE AGENT!"

"Have a nice night, brother," came Al's voice from behind the door, oddly wavery, and a second later, Ed heard the brat _laughing_.

* * *

Stupid little brothers. _Insane_ little brothers.

Ed was never going to let Al dress him again. That blue T-shirt (that he hardly ever wore, because hey, _tanktops _and _ease of movement_) had been something they'd only bought out of necessity last year, but apparently teenage bodies grew faster than Ed had ever thought they did (and _who_ said he wasn't getting taller?), because the damn T-shirt was now too tight for comfort. It pinched his automail a little under his right armpit – automail just didn't give the way skin did – but even more discomfiting than that was how it stretched, drum-tight, across his chest and abdomen. It outlined every single lift and twitch of muscle, giving him the odd feeling that he might as well have stripped naked and painted himself _blue_, for all the cover the shirt gave him. Ed felt like a kid turning up for school in last year's uniform, or maybe even in _no _uniform, and that wasn't the sort of feeling he wanted to be having before he met Mustang for another I'm-not-a-runt showdown.

Well, at least the corduroy jacket had padded shoulders, and the fabric held itself the bare centimeter away from from his automail arm necessary to prevent it from catching, like most other sleeves did. He couldn't _stand_ stray threads getting caught in his elbow.

54, 56, 58...

What an ordinary little street.

Mustang's house was – well, it was kind of all right, insofar as houses went. It stood in a row of identical townhouses, and somehow, Ed had expected something more... unique than that. More egotistical. More I-am-the-mighty-Colonel-and-you-must-bow-before-me-you-brainless-gnats, but this was just a regular old townhouse with a neat little mailbox and a vine creeping over the front porch. Truly, painfully ordinary. Mind-blowingly ordinary, even. It just struck Ed as strange for Mustang, that's all; the stuck-up bastard usually acted as if he'd prefer a palace to an actual home, but this place practically screamed 'home is where the heart is,' or some similarly corny line. Hughes and his family wouldn't have been out of place here, but Mustang...?

For a moment, Ed was seized by a peculiar anxiety – that Mustang was letting him _in_ here, in his – secret base, or something. It was just so damn different from the image the Colonel projected at the office, all polished cufflinks and rich-boy swagger, and unless even his _house_ was some obscure sort of cover, it was more likely that the persona he projected at the office was the cover, instead. And _that_ just gave Ed the heebie-jeebies. Like he didn't even know who Mustang _was_.

Damn it, all of Al's prattle about psychology was getting to him. Well, it was total bullshit. Mustang was a smug, entitled son of a bitch, and that wasn't going to change.

Right.

Ed marched up to the lacquered door, lifted the gleaming door-knocker and rapped it to announce himself.

* * *

**to be continued.**

So, did everyone enjoy Al's little episode of _Queer Eye for the Alchemist Guy_?

I always _did_ think Al was the gayest straight guy ever, just like Ed's the straightest gay guy ever.

And he doesn't even _know_ it. That makes him a lot of fun to write about.

Up next: Mustang in courtship mode! Ed in what-the-hell-is-going-on mode!

**credit.**

Many thanks to Blackie and Koneko for their help with names and dates!

**vote****.**

My apologies for skipping out on the actual _date_, this time, but it was either that or delay an update for another week.

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a) faster updates with shorter chapters, or:

b) slower updates with longer chapters?

Please vote in your reviews!

Thanks!


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